


Almost Nothing

by 16pennies



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers, No Lesbians Die, Post-Canon, Recovery, behold this oneshot I churned out instead of doing actual things I need to do, i rewatched the film and saw meg in trousers and was overwhelmed by how gay i am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 07:05:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15043403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/16pennies/pseuds/16pennies
Summary: Following the ordeal of that night in the lair, Christine is taken into the care of her loved ones in order to recover.Oneshot of Christine overcoming her trauma and finding herself (and someone she loves) along the way. Meg/Christine.





	Almost Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> I've been on a bit of a Phantom binge lately and when I re-watched the 2004 film last night I was overcome by how gay Meg is and wrote this at 4am instead of, like, sleeping.

          Icy water, staining white lace green and causing it to relentlessly stick to her legs as she was moved, guided and urgently jostled away from the man who posed no threat to her and yet created so much danger for everyone else—

          She sensed her body betraying her, starting to shiver as the cold eased its way into her bones, her heart, turning her hot sticky tears into frigid tributaries across her cheeks. Everything began to ache so _desperately_ until the only thing around her was that blackness of despair. There was no elegance to it, no secret, glimmering beauty waiting to be uncovered. It offered no velvet plushness or gentle caresses.

          Only never-ending coarseness which promised a slow erosion of her soul.

          Christine could not say to where those gentle hands brought her, and though she could not bear the thought of being once again at the whim of another, she found herself quite too exhausted and morose to protest. Surely no-one could bring anything upon her worse than what had already occurred?

          Soft fingers pried her out of that heavy dress, pulled a shift over her head, pressed her into a rich bed.

          “Sleep now,” she was told.

          And so she did.

~*~

          “Mademoiselle Giry,”

          “Monsieur,”

          The vicomte sighed, feeling much older than his youth should allow. He rather suspected that the foggy-eyed young woman slouched in the chair at Christine’s bedside felt similarly.

          “I must thank you for your assistance, mademoiselle.” He gestured to the door, “I have had a room made up for you, if you will allow me..?”

          “I’m not leaving her.”

          She said it with such conviction that he did not even think to disagree.

          Raoul took up his vigil in a twin chair on the opposite side of the bed. His throat ached and flashes of shadow seemed to taunt him in every corner, but he would be damned if he did not guard his bride after she had so nearly lost herself to protect him.

          The sun rose on two sleeping sentries.

~*~

          Christine awoke from dreams of darkness to the most brilliant noon light sparkling across her sheets. How curiously incongruent, she thought.

          Casting her gaze across her bedside, she found Raoul asleep in a chair, shrouded in an elegant dressing gown. Above its collar and beneath his honey-coloured hair she could see a necklace of bruises snug across his neck.

          She turned away.

          Her other guardian was awake, gazing at her with such desperate intensity that it nearly took her breath away.

          “Christine,”

          Oh, she really was quite finished with people whispering her name.

          But Meg said it with such warmth, such artlessness and lack of expectation that Christine forgave her.

          “Oh, Meg,” she breathed, closing her eyes once again. “What have I done?”

          But fate decided she should not have an answer, for Raoul was stirring and soon demanding his fiancée be brought a tray for breakfast and then Madame Giry was insisting her daughter change out of the gentleman’s clothes she had donned the night before and forgotten to change.

          Meg reluctantly stood to go and as Christine watched her stride out the room she thought it quite unfortunate. She rather thought her friend looked quite becoming in those trousers and frilled shirt.

~*~

          They all wanted her to rest, yet they grew concerned when she rested too much.

          They all wanted her to talk and yet they refused to listen to what she needed to say.

          All but Meg.

          Frustrated and lost, Christine grew weary of the tricks and meddling of others and simply refused to speak to anyone but her friend and only in strict privacy. She could see Madame Giry’s frown and the wound in Raoul’s affections but it was not enough to breach the darkness of her mind.

          She dismissed them.

          The door clicked and Meg sat by Christine’s knees, a sturdy presence offering a hand to hold and ears to listen—but only if she desired.

          And she did.

          “I was so afraid I could not think.” Meg’s slender fingers were warm in her own. “Oh, Meg, I did a terrible thing that night. How can I live with myself knowing that it was within my power to grant him happiness, and I denied him?”

          She could not tell Raoul of her guilt; she could tell no-one, for they would not understand, would ridicule and despise her for it.

          Perhaps Meg did as well, but if so she did not voice it and for that Christine loved her.

          “Did you love him?” was all she said.

          “In a way... I could have grown to.” Christine traced the soft flesh of Meg’s palm, unable to meet her eyes as she confessed. “But he did not have the patience to allow my feelings to grow.” Softer, “Neither did Raoul, really.” She dropped her friend’s hand and closed her eyes as the tears emerged. “And now he is dead! Or he shall be, quite soon, if not already. He did a great many bad things but he did a great many good as well and he does not deserve my cruelty!”

          “My dear, it is not a sin to have a heart that does not answer to another.”

          Christine remained in tearful silence, unable to object to such clarified truth.

          Meg took Christine’s hand between her own and tenderly stroked the skeletal topography of her skin. “He knew of your sweetness and gentleness. You did him a great mercy, Christine. I am sure he has forgiven you, and now you must do the same for yourself.”

          So many tears had been shed and yet as Christine silently leaned her head onto Meg’s shoulder, she could not help but let them drip.

~*~

          The first day Christine left her room, they went to the library and plucked a comedy from the shelves so they might sit together on the divan and read it aloud to each other in character voices. Meg embraced the ridiculousness and, when Christine snorted, leaned across to kiss her cheek with merry joy.

          How good it was to laugh again!

          When they were a quarter of the way through the second act and had quite thoroughly lost themselves, the door opened.

          Christine saw Raoul and flinched, the last of her laughter echoing in her throat.

          “Please, do not stop on account of me!” His smile was blinding, more radiant than the sun. Christine looked away. “How lovely it is, Christine, to hear your laugh again,” He leaned over and kissed her crown, “and to see you out of your bed.”

          Christine’s heart lurched nauseatingly, its uneven beats driving her to her feet. She could not reach Raoul’s eyes as she tried a smile for him, looking instead at the pretty material adorning his shoulder, and then she fled from the room.

          Meg watched her friend’s flight without interference, suddenly feeling rather cold where Christine’s legs had been only moments ago, draped across her lap.

          “When do you think she will return to me, mademoiselle?” whispered the vicomte as he sank beside her. “When do you suppose my bride will be free?”

          Meg did not think he wanted an answer, so she did not offer him one.

~*~

          They tried to keep her ignorant, but Christine heard their hushed, worried whispers.

          The police, the management, even the chorus had searched below the opera house. They had found that glittering shrine to music, and she did not need to hear the words to know that they had torn it apart, unleashed their years of fear and frustration with the elusive ghost upon his earthly possessions.

          But they never found a body.

          Dare she hope he was alive? Or would that be a more cruel fate for such a man?

          But oh, she could not bear to think of his body hidden away somewhere, left to rot where prying eyes would never stumble!

          Shrouded in darkness, she whispered this into Meg’s hair as she clung to her in her bed. Small fingers twisted her hair as slender arms held her close, keeping her moored lest her grief sweep her away.

          “Do you wish to go to him?” Christine was asked. No judgement or accusation, merely a question in the night. “If you knew he were alive, knew where he was, would you follow?”

          Christine looked to the window, as though expecting him to materialize in impossible places once more. It was difficult to be afraid of him now. “No,” she breathed. “But I must... I must know if I have damned him to misery. For my own sake, selfish thing that I am.”

          Meg’s fingers took on a hypnotizing pattern against Christine’s shoulder. “You must trust him, my dear. He would not wish you to worry so. Rest knowing he is content as long as you are happy.”

          The truth was that Christine was not happy.

          But as she lay there in Meg’s arms, coaxed to sleep by her confident touches, she began to believe that she might be. One day.

          Christine slept with an arm comfortably draped across Meg’s waist and her cheek resting upon her breast.

          Neither of them would sleep alone again.

~*~

          The sun shone beautifully, the late afternoon warmth caressing Christine’s skin like an old lover. She had missed this, had not realized how long it had been since she had embraced the sun. Like a vine, she allowed to give her life and grew taller.

          A figure strode from the house to join her at her tea-taking in the lovely de Chagny garden.

          “Good morning, Little Lotte. May I join you?”

          She could not refuse him, even as the childhood epithet made her gut roil. Was she doomed to be tossed between men who refused to see her as anything other than a figurine on which to plaster their imagining of how she should be? Must she always be an angel or a child?

          Why not a woman?

          “It gladdens me to see you outside, Christine. The spring air will refresh you.” He stirred his tea and set the little silver spoon on the saucer. It had such a pretty pattern of interlocking roses around the perimeter. “And, by June, I shall take you to my summer estate. There are so many beautiful gardens, Christine, much more grand than this one. I am certain you shall find peace there.”

          She said nothing, only smiled politely and sipped her tea, but Raoul seemed satisfied enough to continue.

          “There is one thing, though, first, which must be seen to, of course.” He moved as though to reach for her hand before realising it was engaged in holding the cup and saucer in her lap. Undeterred, he went on: “Christine, it has been several weeks now. We have been engaged for more than four months! Let us marry, Little Lotte.” Christine tensed and he rushed on. “It need not be anything extravagant if you do not wish it—no-one could fault you for asking for privacy. But I cannot protect you as I need to as long as you are not my wife.”

          “Raoul, please—”

          “Marry me, Christine. It could be as early as next week, if it pleases you!”

          She placed her tea on the table with such severity that it sloshed over the edge. “I cannot talk of this now, Raoul, please understand—”

          He was standing now, as was she, and his hand held her elbow as he kindly insisted, “No, I cannot understand! Please, Christine, do not fear any longer. He cannot find us now, you know that—”

          “That is not what I fear!”

          “Then what, if not him?”

          _I fear that_ I _will never find myself_.

          “I’m sorry, Raoul,” and she was truly, desperately sorry, “but I need more time. Please.”

          Her heart, already so wounded, ached at the sight of him sagging in disappointment and hurt. But he did not fight her, merely softly said, “Then you shall have it, Little Lotte,” and watched her flee back to the house.

~*~

          The dark in her room was never quite absolute; always some light crept in the window, diluted the darkness with a splash of moonlight. Christine found it a pleasing balance and took great comfort in making it her confidant.

          “I can’t marry him,” she told it in a whisper.

          Beside her, Meg stirred, perhaps not quite as asleep as she had seemed.

          Christine did not repeat her statement, merely stared into the milky darkness as though waiting for its approval.

          _I cannot marry him, I cannot marry him, I cannot..._

          And though the night merely grew denser, she felt a heavy cloud lift.

          She had fled the embrace of one jailer only to throw herself into the arms of another. They were of a very different sort, it was true, but she could feel now that in marrying Raoul, tender-hearted though he may be, she would only be handing the key to her chains to a new master.

          Christine wondered if her fallen angel had known this, had sensed it within her that any ring she wore would be a shackle upon her soul. Had he released her with the belief that, as she would not bind herself to him, she would not do so with any other man, either?

          Never mind. It did not matter now.

          Christine looked to where Meg lay beside her, staring at her with sleep-filled eyes.

          “I cannot marry him,” she said again.

          Meg did not startle, did not move to illuminate the gas lamp so that she might see her better. No, Meg was always able to find Christine both in the light and in darkness. She rolled onto her side, propped her head on her hand and studied her friend in shadow.

          “And why can’t you marry him?”

          Christine brushed blonde hairs away, played with the frills of Meg’s shirt. The same gentleman’s shirt she had worn that night, she had adopted as nightwear. Christine thought it rather striking.

          “I don’t think my heart is meant to love a man, not for marriage.” Clenching her fist in the material in sudden agony, she whispered, “Oh, what am I to do? I have no prospects, no fortune, I don’t think I shall ever sing again—”

          Meg shushed her, leaned down to rain kisses upon her temples. “Do not fear, Christine. You shall find a way. We shall find a way...”

          And Christine trusted that beyond anything, laughed as Meg held her down to make sure no inch of Christine’s face went ungraced by her lips. All that soft femininity above her, a ballerina’s poise battling with the silliness of overwhelmed affection.

          Christine moved a hand to cradle Meg’s jaw, running her thumb over the sweet angles of bone there. She could not quite find Meg’s sparkling eyes in the dark.

          “Thank you,” she whispered. She seemed to have done so much of that lately and she found herself longing for when she could scream. “Thank you for looking after me, for guiding me through my grief. I do not know how to think of repaying you.”

          “Hush, Christine.” Meg leaned down and dropped a kiss on her nose. “You don’t owe me anything. You never have.”

          And what a beautiful thing that was to hear, to be free of obligation. But, Christine thought as she tapped her fingers on Meg’s skin, she should not mind terribly much if she were...

          Their faces were so near it did not take much for Christine to gently tug Meg’s head nearer and Meg appeared nothing less than eager to assist.

          Kissing a woman was not terribly different from kissing a man, Christine thought. The mechanics were all the same, after all, but nothing could account for the exquisite softness of Meg’s lips, the smoothness of her jaw, the sensation of being curtained by her hair that hung around them both. She was firm but not overwhelmingly dominant, kissing Christine with such tenderness that shattered her memories of the insistence of the men desperate to prove themselves to her.

          But, despite everyone’s fretting, Christine was not a wilted flower made of china. When she pressed against Meg’s lips more fervently, tugged her nearer, Meg responded in kind and Christine smiled against pretty lips at the satisfied contentment of finding one whose passions so perfectly understood her own.

          They kissed each other in darkness until the angle of the moonlight changed, smiling and laughing when teeth clashed or their tongues made shocking noises.

          When they finally slept, it was Meg who lay upon Christine’s breast.

~*~

          Christine looked morosely at her breakfast, which she now took in the breakfast room with the rest of the household. It was quite warm today, another manifestation of time running out on her. She did not deserve Raoul’s never-ending sympathy and he did not deserve the cruelty she must soon do him. His every look, full of yearning, tore her heart into ever-smaller fractions, but she could not yet bring herself to break the engagement when she had nowhere to go should he turn her out of his house. It had been weeks now since she had done it in her mind, but how to do it in reality was another matter entirely.

          No longer hungry, she excused herself and went to her rooms to think.

~*~

          “Whose voice is that?”

          “I don’t know; I’ve never heard him before...”

          Christine cautiously followed as Meg crept to the door and out into the hallway where masculine voices could be heard from below stairs.

          “Monsieur le Vicomte, I’m afraid I really must insist—”

          “Mademoiselle Daaé is indisposed. She is not receiving visitors.” Christine started—who could possibly wish to call upon her? “Any matters to discuss with her, you may discuss with me and, should the need present itself, my solicitors.”

          “Pardon me, monsieur, but you must understand that this is business of a most delicate nature and I am bound by duty to only discuss it with those whom it concerns.”

          “I am her fiancé! Soon I shall be her husband! There is no business of hers which will not soon become my own—”

          Both gentlemen spun to see the lady in question standing in the doorway. Meg stood some ways behind her, still holding the bannister by the stairs.

          “Good morning, monsieur.”

          The unknown gentleman bowed, seeming entirely surprised to find that she was indeed a real, living creature. “Good morning, mademoiselle. May I say how it pleases me to see you in such excellent health.”

          “I thank you, monsieur.” She cast a glance at Raoul and then quickly away. “I understand you wish to speak with me..?”

          “Ah! Yes, mademoiselle.” He held up his sturdy briefcase, no doubt trying to add some gravity to the already tense assembly. “I have some matters of business which concern you. Rest assured it need not take much of your time, though it will require—” here he glanced at Raoul with some trepidation—“a private audience.”

          “Of course, monsieur. Perhaps you would like to take tea in the drawing room?” Christine questioned Raoul with a look, waiting for his permission as politeness would dictate. He gave it, although with evident displeasure, and Christine led her visitor to the room in question. As the door shut behind them, she caught Meg’s reassuring smile from the hall.

          “I understand this has been quite a trying time for you and your family, mademoiselle,” the gentleman said as he took his seat opposite her. “Believe me, I have no wish to intrude or distress you further, but I must warn you what I have to show you today may reawaken old wounds. I must beg your strength and forgiveness, mademoiselle, but please believe me when I say it will benefit you to hear me to the end.”

          With a quickened heart, Christine swallowed and nodded.

~*~

          Christine looked uncomprehendingly at her tea, no doubt cold by now. Her hand ached from signing so many documents after going so long in idleness.

          Such a fortune she could hardly comprehend, and now it sat in a vault in her name.

          She had known, of course, that he must have some material wealth in order to fashion and furnish himself as he had. But the idea of assigning figures, to somehow quantify his value had seemed far too earthly a gesture for a creature that surely existed outside of the means of ordinary men.

          Yet here before her sat the evidence to the contrary, in very tangible paper and ink. Piles of ledgers and records and so many figures.

          He had given her everything. _Everything._

          Whether it was a thank-you or an apology he had not said; the last message she would ever receive was that brief legalese concisely transferring possession and management of all his accounts to her.

          Did this mean he was dead?

          Not even she could say.

          Thusly wound her thoughts for some time until the door opened and she was no longer alone in the room. Christine didn’t know who it was that had intruded until she felt Raoul kneel beside her, take her hands in his.

          “Christine? Did he upset you? What is the matter?”

          He felt so far away from her now, that little boy by the sea.

          She closed her eyes.

          “I’m sorry, Raoul, but I cannot marry you.”

          His hands tensed around hers and then disappeared.

          “I understand,” he said, and he truly sound as though he did. _Go,_ she thought, _go find someone more deserving of your compassion than I_.

          She imagined he was nearly out the door when he turned and said, “You are welcome to stay as long as you like, Christine. I do care for you still, and will never leave you wanting.”

Shaking her head, she answered, “Thank you, Raoul, but I will be leaving soon.”

          Raoul startled. “But where will you go?”

          Christine’s vision finally came into focus on that elegantly written letter on the table before her, and for the first time in so many months the world once again became that majestic land of possibility.

          “ _Anywhere_.”

~*~

          The morning of their departure, Christine woke her lover with eager kisses to her temple, her cheek, her collarbone, her lips. When Meg awoke in giggles, they looked at each other with all the passionate, terrified of excitement of two young people who had not a clue in the world how to do what they desired and yet all the determination to work it out.

          Breakfast was a surprisingly amiable affair, both their guardians having resigned themselves to the fruitlessness of trying to persuade the young women to say. It was only when they were both in their travelling gowns (newly tailored—though Christine had not entirely lost herself to extravagance upon acquiring such fortune, she had conceded the practicality in purchasing higher quality garments for the road ahead, wherever it may lead) that the tears began to fall.

          “Take care, Little Lotte,” whispered Raoul hoarsely into her hair. “Go and see the world, but please remember to write. You will always find you have a friend willing to aid you whenever you should find yourself in need.”

          Christine nodded, too overcome to speak.

          As the coach pulled them away and she looked out the window with Meg’s hand in hers, Christine breathed in the warm summer air and smiled. How beautiful it was, and how beautiful everything would surely be outside the borders of France! She dearly wished to see the alps, and the cathedrals of Italy, and perhaps even to return to Sweden for a little while.

          She knew that her ambitions were reckless, that she was only inviting more danger and deceit, but with this woman by her side and the healed wounds that proved to her she had already survived so much, it did not seem so very terrible a thing to see what she could of the Earth while she was privileged enough to live on it.

          Meg’s hand tightened about hers and Christine looked up to see they were driving past the opéra. Scaffolding surrounded blackened walls and Christine realised that they had elected to reconstruct it. This surprised her, though she could not say why.

          But it was terribly appropriate, was it not? Let all the injuries recover, let new beauty be born from the ashes of despair.

          She liked it very much indeed.

          They turned down a boulevard and the theatre shrank behind them, and with a jolt of her heart she realised that her guardian angel was truly gone, and today she had turned from her only other protector.

          Nothing between her and the world now.

          No backward glances.

          Christine looked to her right, where Meg sat looking forlorn. In a rush of affection she leaned over and kissed her until Meg was smiling and gently cradling Christine’s jaw.

          Christine smiled too.

          _Almost_ nothing.


End file.
